The Power House Wives

By Fredrica Greene

Power House Inc., the largest employer in suburban Fairbrook, downsizes, throwing hundreds of employees out of work. The story focuses on four women, their lives suddenly turned upside down by the lay-offs, face the loss of their homes.
Charlotte is the ex-wife of the PowerHouse CEO who now wants to cut off his financial support and force her to sell the home that had been in her family for generations. It seems he'll stop at nothing to get his way. Laurel has moved nine times during her twenty-one year marriage and has finally settled permanently, or so she thought, into the first house she has ever owned. But her husband is so defeated by his job loss, he is too immobilized to look for work, and they may lose their house. Zora's husband doesn't tell her he lost his job and she continues her lavish lifestyle until they're nearly broke. Robin, a high school teacher expecting her first child, has given the school district her notice. When her husband's job goes up in smoke, she tries to get her job back, only to find her position has been eliminated due to the economic downturn. Meanwhile her husband can't hold a job, and it looks as if they'll lose their new home.
Each of these women realizes she will have to act if she is to save her home. And the odds against all of them are great. In facing these challenges, each finds qualities in themselves they never knew they had.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456603106

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CHAPTER 1

Although she didn't know it, this was to be the last dinner Laurel would give for a long time. Since it was Indian Summer, the theme for tonight was Autumn Sun. Her centerpiece was a flotilla of chrysanthemums and orange candles bobbing in a crystal bowl. She was trying to surround the bowl with a dozen shot glasses each containing an orange mum, to suggest the sun's rays. But the flowers kept flipping out of the glasses like suicidal goldfish. It had looked so easy on The Home Hostess yesterday morning. She refused to be defeated by a bunch of stubborn flowers. With a final thumb thrust in the center of each flower, she shoved them into their glass holders and tamed them into submission.

Tonight she was entertaining Wes's bosses, his new protegé and their spouses. The table was set: eight gold-rimmed dishes, eight damask napkins folded into fans tucked into eight crystal goblets; eight place card holders Laurel had made herself - tiny pine cones sprayed with gold paint with hand-lettered place cards in each. After moving the place cards around like chess pieces too many times to count, she finally settled on the best seating arrangement she could.

Wes would sit at the head of the table, of course. His protegé, Hollis Peterson, and his wife could sit by him. Craig Armstrong and Nathan Lowe, Power House's CEO and CFO would sit on either side of her. That left Craig's young wife Caprice and Zora Lowe. The problem was Zora would be indignant if she didn't get to sit next to Craig.

When Craig was married to Charlotte, Laurel didn't have these problems. Charlotte didn't take offense if she wasn't next to the most important person in the room. She could start a conversation with anyone. Laurel was wrestling with the cards when Wes stormed in with a scowl and cardboard box.

What's that? Laurel asked.

He dropped the box on the floor. I've been canned.

What? Laurel's stomach twisted into an instant knot.

The whole fucking department's shipped out.

Where? She felt woozy.I don't understand. When did this happen?

About an hour ago. Armstrong called me into his office and handed me my hat. Company's sold to an outfit out of Minnesota.

Her heart nearly stopped. Not again.We're not moving?

Weren't you listening? I'm canned, not transferred.

That's a relief.

It's a relief I lost my job? he said in disbelief.

You'll find another one. You always do. Laurel clapped her hand to her forehead. Oh my gosh. Our dinner. This will be so awkward.

Have you lost your marbles? There won't be any dinner tonight.

Of course. What am I thinking? I hope it's not too late to call our guests. She knew she should be most concerned with the job loss, but she couldn't help focusing on all that food, sitting in the kitchen, going to waste. All the hours spent preparing for tonight, gone to waste. Setting her feeling of dismay aside, she went to him and stroked his cheek. I'd better get on the phone. I guess I don't have to call the Armstrongs.

You got that right.

Fortunately she only had to make two calls. She got the Peterson's answering machine and left a message. She hoped they hadn't left already. The next call was to Zora.

Isn't this rather short notice? Zora sniffed "

I'm sorry.

Where can I get a dinner reservation anyplace decent now?

I'm really sorry, Laurel said. Something came up.

May I ask why?

I can't talk now. Laurel hung up.

Wes was in the den pouring Jack Daniels into a tumbler.Dinner's ready when you are. Laurel was about to add, I have a lot of food, but thought better of it.

I'm not hungry. He sank into his recliner. You and Justin eat without me.

Justin's got football practice tonight. He won't be home till late.

Well then I guess it's just you. He clicked on the TV.

Laurel had no appetite either. Oh my God, she might have to move again. She retrieved the roast from the oven, wrapped it in foil and stashed it in the refrigerator. Wes had promised this was their last move. Tomorrow she'd try to think of how many creative ways she could make it stretch over the next several days. Justin would have to change schools again.

She pulled the cheese cubes off the pineapple, leaving toothpicks sticking out like a startled porcupine. She'd melt the cubes for macaroni and cheese. It was never too soon to start conserving. The last time this happened, Wes was unemployed for four months.

She put away the nuts, the chips, the onion dip, the prosciutto wrapped, out-of-season, criminally expensive asparagus, dumped the marinated brown and white mushrooms she'd so carefully arranged in a yin-yang pattern into a bowl. She replaced the china in the sideboard, unfolded the napkin fans, tossed the place cards in the trash. She absentmindedly popped shrimp balls into her mouth as she cleared away the party that never was and glanced morosely at the chocolate cake topped with a giant blossom of edible chrysanthemum and nasturtium petals. She thought of the day like an empty sandwich, all bread and no filling. Preparation and cleanup, but no party.

She had flitted around the country like a moth her whole life, first with her parents as a military brat, then with Wes's spiraling career. She'd land just long enough to touch down before she had to fly off again. Nine homes in twenty-one years of marriage, always picking up before she could set down roots. This was the first house they'd owned.

Six years ago, when Wes joined Power House, she finally got her own home. She had planted her first garden: a vegetable plot, roses, and a lemon tree whose scent filled the room when she opened the kitchen window. She'd decorated as she pleased. No landlord's restrictions. She had sponge painted the dining room to resemble a Tuscan villa, papered the kitchen walls in a blue and sunny yellow Provincial print, and hung family photos in the hallway without fear of having to patch the holes or forfeit a deposit. She'd set down roots - not just for herself, but for her family. Justin had one more year of high school. It would be the worst possible time for him to change schools.

She was elbows deep in soapsuds, scrubbing the roasting pan, when the doorbell rang. Can you get that? she called. When the bell rang a second time, she peeled off her rubber gloves and marched indignantly past the den where Wes sat staring at a game show. Wes never watched game shows. Exasperated she opened the front door to find herself face to face with a young couple straight out of a toothpaste ad - blonde, tan and enviably fit looking.

Hi, I'm Hap, the bronze god said with a broad grin. And this is my wife, Robin. Laurel could see why Wes had promoted him to sales manager. He exuded boyish confidence. His wife looked like a cheerleader, slim and perky, her hair pulled back in a pony tail, a few wisps framing her heart-shaped face.

Robin looked past Laurel at the empty living room. Oh-oh. Do we have the wrong night?

No, said Laurel, collecting herself. I tried to reach you. We had to cancel the dinner. The couple stood there awkwardly. They had obviously dressed up for a party. She couldn't just shut the door on them. Come in, she said. At least, let me offer you a glass of wine.

She led them to the living room and went to get Wes. The den was permeated with eau de bourbon. Tell them to leave, Wes grunted. When he refused to get up, she conceded defeat and went into the kitchen to cobble something together.

When Laurel returned to the living room, Robin and Hap were sitting side by side on the sofa, holding hands. She set down the tray bearing wine, glasses, and the rescued cheese cubes.

Robin held up a hand. I'm not drinking.

Hap patted her stomach. We're expecting.

Robin blushed and pushed his hand away.

Laurel didn't see any sign of a bulge. When are you due?

Not till the end of May, Robin said. After school's out.

Are you going to the University?

Hap laughed. She teaches at Norton High.

Laurel blushed, embarrassed by her misjudgment. You look so young. She put her hand to her mouth. I hope you're not offended. I mean it as a compliment.

Robin smiled. I took it that way.

Our son, Justin, is a junior at Norton.

He wouldn't know me unless he takes home economics, Robin said.

Or hangs around to watch the girls, Hap added.

She gave him a stop-it nudge. I coach girls' track, she explained.

Where's Wes? Hap asked.

He's not feeling well, Laurel said. That was an understatement.

As if to prove her right, Wes appeared in the doorway, swaying, in his undershirt and slacks. You still here? he slurred. He squinted at the startled trio with red-rimmed eyes. You didn't get the word? Laurel wished he'd go back into his cave.

Hap looked puzzled.

We've been terminated. Fired.

Hap looked uncomprehending for a moment; then his grin melted away. But I've nearly doubled the sales in my territory.

I didn't say 'you'. I said 'we.' The whole damn sales team.

Hap shook his head.That doesn't make sense.

Wes leaned against the door jamb. Whole fucking department's down the tubes.

Robin's face had turned white. We just bought our house.

Hap wrapped a protective arm around her. Don't worry, honey.

The company will probably call in the loan they gave you, Wes growled.

Wes, Laurel warned. This was not the time for more bad news.

Sorry, pal, Wes said as he staggered back to the den.

Laurel was afraid Robin would faint. I'm sure Hap will find a job, she said to reassure her, although she had no idea if this were true.

I’m not worried, Hon, he said.

Robin got up shakily. I don't feel well. We'd better go.

Laurel walked Robin and Hap to the door. Don't mind Wes. This has been a shock to him.

Laurel closed the door behind them and leaned against it. Tonight was bad enough; tomorrow would be worse. Wes was a bear when he had a hangover, and he'd have a doozy. She found Wes in the den, staring glassy-eyed at the television screen. She turned off the set. Go to bed, she said. Things will look better in the morning.

Yeah, and Jesus is coming back, too.

Laurel recoiled from his hot whiskey breath as she walked Wes down the hall, his arm draped over her shoulders. In their bedroom, she twisted him off her shoulder and onto the bed. She unbuckled his belt, grabbed the cuffs of his pants and pulled them off. Once he was tucked in, none too gently, she went to the den and found the bottle on the floor by his chair. It was less than half full.

She was about to pour the rest of the bourbon down the kitchen sink when she reassessed the situation. With the holidays just two months away, she could use it for Bourbon Balls and her famous fruitcake. But she had to hide the bottle from Wes. She was looking for the right spot when Justin popped in the front door. The duffel slung over his shoulder reeked of dirty gym clothes. Judging by his smile, Norton High must have won the Homecoming game. He dropped his duffel on the floor and gave Laurel a peck on the cheek. Hi, Mom. Party over already? He opened the refrigerator door and stood back. Whoa. What's with all this food?

Laurel tried to sound matter-of-fact, as if this happened all the time. Dinner was cancelled.

Why?

She kissed his forehead, brushing his lock of auburn hair aside. Dad didn't feel well. Nothing for you to worry about.

Justin frowned. Is he sick?

She shook her head. Just tired.

He narrowed his eyes.What's that in your hand?

Laurel realized she was holding the half-empty liquor bottle. He had a hard day.

Shit, not again. It's his job, isn't it?

Laurel patted his cheek. I told you not to worry. And watch your language, young man.

Sorry.

Besides, things always look better in the morning.

You always say that.

That’s because it's true.

He picked up his duffel and slung it over his shoulder. Shit, he muttered as he crashed down the hall to his room. Shit, shit, shit.

Laurel's stomach rumbled. She'd eaten nothing but a few cheese cubes and shrimp balls. She made a cup of chamomile tea and cut herself a piece of the cake that was to have been tonight's grand finale. The house was silent. When she had finished the last crumb and rinsed off the dishes, Laurel hid the bourbon bottle in the back of the cabinet with her baking supplies. Wes would never look there. Then she trudged slowly down the hall, her way lit only by the light seeping under Justin's door.

She undressed in the dark and crawled into bed. Wes snored loudly. With each exhalation, his sour breath fanned over her. Laurel scrunched over to her side of the bed, her back to him. Tomorrow they would discuss his next move. Move as in take action, not move as in relocate. She'd do whatever she could to stay put.

Zora wangled a last minute reservation at the Club. The fact that she was Mrs. Nathan Lowe did the trick. The hostess managed to find her a table.

She had tried to reach Nathan at his office to tell him of their change of plans, but he had already left. To her annoyance, when she phoned his private line, her call was routed to the Power House main voice mail. She thought she might have misdialed, but when she tried again she got the same result.

As she watched from her living room window as cars wound up the hill to her street, she grew restless. Where was Nathan? She had chilled two martini glasses so they could have a relaxing cocktail before they left for the Club. Lights were coming on in the town below; square nuggets of gold glinted in the darkening sky.

She was irritated at Nathan for being late, irritated at Power House for its misdirected phone answering system, and really irritated at Laurel for canceling dinner so last minute. What could be so important? Why the mystery? If someone was sick, why didn't she just say so?

On the bright side, she didn't have to suffer through one of Laurel's over-the-top dinners with their silly themes. Sometimes it was hard to keep a straight face. Especially the April Showers dinner Laurel gave, in which every drink had an umbrella, strings of raindrop-shaped glass beads hung over the table, and the place names were written on doll-size rubber rain boots. Frankly, she didn't understand why Laurel went to all that work. Why not just have her parties catered? Zora couldn't imagine actually cooking.

Zora paced back and forth in front of the window until she saw Nathan's car pull into the driveway. She heard the front door open and Nathan's heels click along the marble entry floor. Zora filled the chilled glasses and dropped a pistachio-filled olive in each.

Nathan trudged into the living room, shoulders sagging; shadows underlined his eyes. Zora kissed him on the cheek, then rubbed off her lipstick mark off with her thumb.You look exhausted.

He collapsed onto the beige leather couch.

Zora handed him his martini. You'll be glad to know we don't have to go to the Hardestys' tonight. The party's been canceled.

I would expect so, he said glumly.

Zora raised her eyebrows. Really?

Wes got the axe today.

A few drops of gin spilled from Zora's glass onto the Oriental carpet.No wonder Laurel didn't want to talk. Why ?

You heard the rumors that the company would be sold.

Zora hadn't paid much attention.

A lot of people lost their jobs today. Nathan raised his glass to his lips and took a swallow. But the shareholders will be happy.

What about your job? At his level, he should be untouchable.They need you.

Nathan drained his glass. Don't worry.

Zora sat on the arm of the couch. A strange thing happened when I tried to call you. I got the main number.

He flushed. They're redoing the phone system. My line must be down.

Not for long, I hope. She stood up and took his glass. We're due at the Club in twenty minutes.

Nathan sighed. Can't we stay home?

I have nothing here. I thought we'd be at Laurel's. She took his glass. We'll have a nice quiet dinner.

The Club hostess led them to a table in a corner near the kitchen.

Don't you have anything better? Zora asked, looking pointedly at an empty table near the windows that overlooked the golf course.

They're all reserved.

Ordinarily Zora would have stood her ground and insisted on the better location, but she was glad to get anything at all on such short notice.

The room was bustling. The few empty tables had Reserved signs. The waiters rushed in and out of the swinging kitchen door, irritating Zora, though Nathan didn't seem to notice. When their waiter finally approached, Zora ordered lobster tail and a glass of Chardonnay.

Nathan handed the waiter his menu.I'll have a martini. Make it a double. And the clam chowder,

Is that all? Zora asked. Nathan always ordered the prime rib.

I'm not hungry.

She leaned across the table and touched his forehead. Are you sure you're all right?

He brushed her hand away. I'm fine. Just tired.

Zora glanced toward the door. Look who just came in, she said. Craig and his child bride. Her eyes followed them as they were led to the table she coveted. In a sea of homogenous middle-aged diners, Caprice stood out -- tall and slim with long blonde Alice-in-Wonderland hair. Zora's hand involuntarily went up to her own neatly sprayed, freshly highlighted bob.

Nathan didn't look up. The waiter appeared and set their drinks in front of them.

Zora glanced around the room. Why don't we have our Christmas party here for a change? I'll ask Antonio if the banquet room is available.

Nathan swirled his drink. Let's skip the party this year.

She took a sip of wine.We can't do that. Everybody looks forward to it. Zora leaned forward, lowering her voice. If we don't, people will think they weren't invited. You don't want to offend anyone.

Nathan took a slug of his drink.Let's not talk about it now.

Zora decided not to pursue the subject. He was obviously upset by the events at work. Having their annual party was clearly the right thing to do. It would be insurance to help cement his position - just in case. She'd make all the arrangements and present it to him as a fait accompli. Nathan wouldn't have to do a thing.

She tried to think of something amusing to cheer him up. Since her day had been spent getting her hair and nails done after a morning of bridge, she had little ammunition. Somehow she didn't think he'd be distracted by her description of her bridge hands.

Fortunately, the waiter appeared with their food, and the need for conversation was allayed. Zora picked at her lobster tail, careful not to get a drop of melted butter on her dress. Nathan toyed with his soup, barely touching it. The waiter came over to ask if anything was wrong. Nathan shoved the bowl away and asked for the check.

On the way out, Zora headed toward Craig's table.

Where are you going? Nathan asked, placing his hand on her arm.

To say hello.

Nathan tugged at her sleeve.I don't think they want to be disturbed.

She plucked his hand off. They've seen us. We can't ignore them.

Nathan lagged behind as she led the way to Craig's table.

What a coincidence, she said brightly.

Craig stood up, but Zora flicked her wrist. Please sit. We were just on our way out.

Caprice flashed a porcelain smile.

Craig resumed his seat and nodded to Nathan.

Nathan placed a hand on Zora's back and guided her away.

Once outside, Zora hooked her arm into his. Why didn't you say something?

Didn't you see they wanted to be left alone?

It wouldn't hurt to say hello. You shouldn't be rude to him. He's still your boss.

Nathan placed his hand over hers. I'll keep that in mind.

As they drove home, Zora's mind was on their annual party. Christmas was three months off, but it was not too soon to start planning. There was the room to book, a menu to decide, invitations to be engraved. No, it was none too soon.

On a beautiful Indian Summer day under a brilliant Northern California sun, Charlotte Armstrong was about to enter the Fairbrook Country Club for the first time since her divorce to meet with the man who had replaced her with a woman half her age six years before. This would be the first time she'd been alone with Craig since he'd left. He hadn't even spoken to her at their son's high school graduation four years ago. Of course with his new wife hanging on his arm, that would have been awkward. Since then, she hadn't even seen him, although she often saw his photo in the newspaper: either in the business section as Power House CEO, or at a social event with his young wife/ former secretary, beaming at his side. They lived in the same town, but different worlds.

When she heard his voice on the telephone yesterday her heart started pounding so loudly she thought he must have heard it across the phone lines. She had been so stunned she had accepted without thinking. I need to talk to you, and I'd rather do it in person, he'd said. And she'd agreed. As soon as she'd hung up she wondered why she hadn't asked more questions. What was so important he couldn't tell her over the phone? She'd lain away all night -at least it seemed all night - wondering and worrying. Was it good news or bad? Was he ill? Terminal? Getting divorced again? Did he want her to take him back? Did she want him back? She didn’t know. This morning, she'd spent an hour agonizing over what to wear, finally choosing the blue silk blouse that matched her eyes. She'd tried to disguise the effects of a sleepless night, but all she had was some ancient powder and lipstick. On her way out the door her Labrador, Lucky, had jumped up leaving a dusty paw print on her black slacks.

The road to the club had changed radically in the last few years. The mosaic of flowering peach and almond orchards that thrived when her grandfather built their family home was now a desert of terra cotta and white stucco mini-mansions. Power House Inc., where Craig ruled, had mowed down the orchards to plant its concrete roots there. Now Fairbrook, once a sleepy village, the fruit basket of the Bay Area, was a smugly prosperous sterile suburb.

The Fairbrook Country Club was a large, rambling building resembling a ranch house on steroids. The three flags outside the front door, American, California, and the club flag - green with crossed golf clubs - were at half mast. Charlotte wondered who had died.

Charlotte handed her car keys to the valet and sucked in her breath to quiet her squirrely stomach. She threw back her shoulders, clutched her purse in front of the smudge on her slacks and walked in.

Nothing had changed. The lobby had the same red and black swirled carpet, brass-studded leather couches, and wagon wheel coffee table it had when she was last there.

She waited in the dining room entry for the hostess. The light from the glass wall overlooking the golf course silhouetted the diners. She couldn't make out any faces. Not that it mattered. She'd been out of the social loop since the divorce. The only one who'd kept in touch was Laurel.

The hostess, blonde hair pinned in a tight French twist that seemed lacquered in place, teetered toward Charlotte on spike heels. She looked at Charlotte as if she couldn't quite place her. When Charlotte said she was meeting Craig Armstrong, the hostess's expression changed to a smile. Charlotte followed her toward the back of the room, her purse clutched over the paw prints on her thigh.

Craig had barely changed since she last saw him. His forehead was a little higher than she remembered, but it could just be that his thick hair was brushed straight. While her hair had grayed to mouse, his was silver, accentuating his tan. Wrinkles were gaining on her despite her daily slathering with moisturizer. He appeared rugged and, she had to admit, handsome. Life would be more fair if he sported a shiny-smooth cranium ringed with gray frizz and hair poking out his ears.

You're looking well, he said. He waved the waiter over. What'll you have? A glass of white wine?

I'll have a martini, she said, as the waiter snapped her napkin open and placed it on her lap.

Craig raised an eyebrow. One martini, and one Perrier. He studied her for a moment. You've changed.

Charlotte didn't know if he meant her choice of beverage or the fact that she no longer wore her hair in the plastered page-boy of their married years. Or that she wasn't wearing one of the prim dresses she had given away. I suppose I have, she shrugged. I'm through with patent pumps and panty hose now that I'm not a corporate wife.

I meant the drink, Craig said. But I like your new style. It's becoming.

The waiter returned with their drinks and menus.

What's with the lowered flags? she asked.

Craig's jaw tightened, then he shook his head. You didn't hear? Larry Hopkins died.

Your lawyer?

The company lawyer.

I'm sorry. When?

Last week.

What did he die of?

It was a freak accident. He raised his glass and drank half of it in one gulp.

What kind of accident? she pressed.

He was killed by a runaway golf cart. He set down his glass. Have you decided what you want?

Charlotte glanced at the menu.Yes. She sipped her martini and waited for him to tell her why she was here.

When the waiter materialized, Craig handed him his unopened menu. I'll have the usual.

I'll have the prime rib, Charlotte said. She never ate big lunches, but she might as well splurge on Craig's expense account.

Craig leaned back in his seat. I know you're wondering what this is about.

That was an understatement. She tried to look nonchalant.

Word isn't out yet, but Power House has been sold to Omni Vortex out of Minneapolis. The Fairbrook plant will just be a satellite outpost.

For this he had invited her to lunch? This is what he couldn't tell her over the phone? What a fool she'd been to think it was something more.

You're moving to Minnesota?

He shook his head. Hell, no. There can be only one CEO. The Omni guy is keeping the job and I'm not about to take a step down. I'm retiring.

Her stomach flip-flopped. She couldn't see any way this conversation was going in the right direction.

He leaned back. Charlotte, we'll have to reduce your support payments since I won't be working.

The sip of martini she had taken went down Charlotte's windpipe. She started to cough spasmodically. Craig got up to pat her on the back, but she shook him off. When she'd regained her composure, she pressed her hands on the table to get up, then sat back down. She spoke as calmly as she could. I didn't ask you for an increase when you started making a lot of money, and I can't believe you're even suggesting this now. I tried to play fair and I expect you to do the same. I'm not some business competitor. I was your wife for twenty-eight years.

He knitted his brows in what she recognized as his 'sincere' look. "I don't want to hurt you, Charlotte. I'm warning, no that's not the word - I’m 'advising' -you that I won't be able to keep up the payments. I'll be sixty next June. At my age, I can't expect to find another position making the kind of salary I've been earning. Especially with